Merci, Ma Chere
by lenny85
Summary: Bella is a writer in Paris who just has no inspiration left. Will she find some one day in the park? Can you say Parisian Edward? BXE Unique. Oneshot. Enjoy!


**Ta-Da! Here's a quick one-shot for all my lovelies. Sorry about the total lack of updates on my story! They will pick up! I haven't given up on that story so look for an update soon!**

**So, I have to say, I really like this, and I hope you do too!!**

**Enjoy!**

I was suddenly awoken by a blaring car horn nine stories beneath me. My heart was pounding in my chest, showing no signs of stopping. Was it a nightmare that caused this swell of panic to overcome me? I couldn't remember. I curled my knees up to my chest, grabbing a handful of blanket in my hand. I was close to tears, and so frustrated with myself. It was times like this I wanted someone. I needed someone.

The room was very dark, not even the bright lights from the street carried up this far. Knowing that sleep would not come again for a long time, I pulled the ratty blanket off of myself. The cold hit me, causing my body to quiver. Damn these Parisian winters. This was your idea remember Bella? You could go home anytime you want.

Grabbing my sweater of the floor, I took the few steps from my bed to my make-shift kitchen, turning the water on. Maybe some hot tea would help, it always did when I was younger. As the water started to boil, I walked over to my window and peered down to the city below me. Even after over a year here, the sight of Paris still took my breath away, even at night. My eyes needed a few minutes to adjust to all the lights below me. The Champs-Elysees was stretched out below me, many cars zooming in and out even at this hour.

Letting out a loud sigh, I made my tea, feeling the hot water warm up my entire body. I sat down on my bed, and became lost in my own thoughts. It certainly was a dangerous place to be, I was always over thinking things. I tried to figure out my plan for the day, which would be arriving in a few hours. I needed to write, but nothing was coming out. Its as though my brain has run dry. And, then, I remembered that is why I had come to Paris in the first place. I had this crazy idea that somehow being in a city with so much history, life, and culture would help the dark cloud of writers block that have been looming over me for months.

After three incredibly successful novels, my editor was fine with letting me go where ever I wanted, as long a she got her chapters on time. Why did everything just come to a screeching halt like that? Nothing had changed in my life. I was simply out of inspiration. Hell, why not go to Paris? And I did. That worked for a while. I had finished half of my next book in the time that I have been here. But, now, I find my self growing lonely and maybe even a tad depressed, which isn't like me at all. When I look into the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Maybe it was time to go home.

I pulled my computer out from under my bed, wanting to check today's weather. I was itching to go to the park, sometimes the fresh air helped cleanse my mind a bit. And, to my luck, I saw it was going to be a beautiful day. Sleep must have come at some point, since the morning sun heating up my apartment awoke me. I still felt extremely tired, and I had already pretty much ruled out getting any work done today. What a shocker. I knew I had to try though.

I grabbed my old backpack that I have had since highschool, and packed up my laptop and a notebook and pen, for sometimes ideas come more freely when I am writing then out longhand. At the moment, part of me was wondering why I even try anymore. This novel would never get done; I really should have just capped off my career at three books. Why did I even give in to my editors constant nagging? As I thought about it...I realized I didn't have anything better to do with my life. It scared me sometimes to think about what I would do after this book is finished (that is, if I _can_ finish it).

I pushed that all to the back of my mind as I trudged out the door. The rotten smell of my hallway certainly didn't help at all. The stain filled brown walls looked like they had never been painted; I couldn't even imagine what was all over them. Gross. Shaking my head, I started to descend the nine flights of stairs. I remembered my first month here; my legs were constantly burning. These stairs were nothing to me now, and I was grateful for the workout.

Autumn was just around the corner, but it was still pleasantly warm out. The walk to the park was only a few minutes, that was one great thing about my apartment; it was right in the heart of Paris. The vibrant blue sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. The bright midday sun was shining down on me; the heat of the sun warmed my skin up.

When I arrived at the park, I took my usual spot underneath a large Oak tree. It was probably the biggest one in the park, and easily a hundred years old. The branches fanned out nicely, provided shade, and a cooling off from the sun. I could work on my laptop here, with out the glare from the sun interfering. I leaned up against the trunk of the tree; it fit the curve of my back perfectly. While my computer was booting up, I looked lazy around the park.

This was always an entertaining thing to do. There were students I could tell, who were stretched out like me, computers and books at hand. Couples were scattered around, becoming better acquainted with each other (if you know what I mean). I turned away from them immediately, a knot forming in my stomach. I was jealous, and I wasn't ashamed to admit it.

I pulled open the chapter I was working on, still discouraged that I would get anything done today. My fingers were poised on the keys, ready to type. Ha! Nothing came. No thoughts. No strike of genius like I needed. The flashing bar on the screen was mocking me, just daring me to type something. Even my stupid computer knew I couldn't.

My eyes wandered back to the goings on in the park. Looking to my left, something -or rather someone- caught my eye. I must have looked like a complete fool, gapping at him with my mouth open. But at that moment, I didn't even care. He was breathtaking alright, the likes of which I had never seen before. Unlike me, he was sitting in the sun, which made his almost bronze colored hair stick out even more. That was the first thing I noticed, especially since he kept running his fingers through it. Ooh, I bet it was soft. He was reading a book, his handsome face in deep concentration. Could he be a student? I wondered, my eyes wandering to the backpack sitting next to him.

I couldn't even put into words how beautiful he was. This is like when you see a really good looking guy and you just start to wonder everything about him. That's what I was doing. So, as I was sitting there under my favorite tree, naming our children (Matthew Robert and Ashley Marie, thanks for asking), something just clicked in my mind. I really didn't know what it was, but all of the sudden, I knew exactly how my story should end. The idea just came to me. Had this handsome stranger freed me from my writers block?

The thought seemed crazy, but true. My mind kicked into overdrive, and I immediately started typing. The ideas just kept coming and coming; my fingers seemed to arrange all the words perfectly for me. This guy had worked some kind of spell on me. Okay Bella...you need to stop reading Harry Potter so much. Every few paragraphs or so I just had to look up at him, and the butterflies would increase when ever I did. I had a huge smile on my face, exuberant that I was actually writing! It truly was an amazing feeling.

After three long chapters, I pulled my hands off the keyboard to take a breath. I looked up at him again, to find him staring right back at me. After a sharp intake of breath, I realized that he probably wasn't even looking at me. He might have been looking just over my shoulder or something, it was really hard to tell. But, regardless, those two green eyes seemed to bore two holes in me. I quickly looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, but I doubt he even noticed me. Whew. Wow. Ok.

I tried, I really did. But my efforts were in vain. I kept glancing up at him, for he seemed to be feeding my writing. It continued like this for another three hours. My heart would race when he would turn a page or scratch the back of his neck. I felt like a silly teenage girl, in love with someone I could never have.

After, I finished my fifth chapter for the day, my neck and back had become stiff from sitting so long. Where had the time gone? The sun was getting low in the sky, and I felt the hunger growing in my stomach. And, then, for what seemed like the thousandth time today, I looked around, but he was gone. A knot formed in my stomach, one of loss. Ha, did I really expect him to hang around here, follow me home and then have sex with me until the crack of dawn? Hmm....now that I think about it, yes! That would have been nice....

It was a bit sad, seeing just the empty patch of grass and not his magnificent figure, but I was still on a high from being so productive today. Even if I never saw him again (which was a definite possibility), just that memory of him, his face in my mind, I was sure would carry me through until I was finished this book. Gosh, was I ever glad I went to the park today. And, with that smile still on my face, and those eyes fresh in my mind, I made my way back home.

The next morning, as I was laying in bed, I thought I might be a good idea to venture back to the park. I was trying not to get my hopes up at all that he would be there, but maybe just the essence of him would be. Less than ten minutes later, I was crossing the busy street, practically in a sprint to get to the park. So much for not getting my hopes up.

I threw my stuff down and looked towards that oh-so-familiar patch of grass, and I wasn't disappointed. There he was, but with no book today. Instead he sat on a small stool with an easel in front of him. Oh gosh, so he was a painter. That is so incredibly sexy. Again, he was deep in thought. I wondered what he was painting. Probably what was right in front of him, the park and the people in it. Was he in art school? Already an accomplished painter? More and more questions that I would never know the answer too. He simply was an enigma to me, maybe even a figment of my imagination. If that was the case, it seems I have a pretty over active imagination.

More aware of my movements than ever, I sat down, and began to write. Thankfully, things went, if possible, even better than yesterday. Today I was smart enough to bring some water and some food, in case this was another all day affair. And, I really hope it would be.

The concentration on his face had almost turned into a look of pain. This intrigued me even more. I wanted so desperately to tap into that mind of his, and unlock the secrets that it held.

But, instead of doing that, I just wrote. And so we stayed like that, for the entire day. The hours ticked by, people came and went, but we remained, both steadfast in our work. He never faltered, never took a break, and neither did I. As the sun started to dip below the horizon, I packed up my things, incredibly satisfied with another days work. Wow, if I continued at this rate, I could be done by the end of the week! I would have never have thought such a thing could happen just even last week.

A muse! That's what he was to me. My muse. I had always wanted a muse....and I didn't even know a single thing about mine, except he is a painter (and inhumanly sexy). He looked like a native, it was blatantly obvious who was and who wasn't. I guess I would have to just keep showing up to the park, and pray that he would do the same.

On my way out of the park, I tried very smoothly to walk past him, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to develop some kind of invisible connection with him. I kept my distance as I walked pasted him, not wanting to break is unyielding concentration. I had to look! I just had to! Just as I pasted by him, I got the closest look at his perfect face as I've had so far. He truly was astounding. The shape of his jaw line, the perfect line of his nose, and long eyelashes stood out to me. He quickly jerked his head to look at me, his hand still holding the paintbrush which was in mid stroke. I tried to decipher that look on his face. I could tell he was still deep in thought, in concentration, but, his face seemed to almost relax a bit when his eyes met mine. His eyes were so soft, and yet there was some kind of barrier he held up, not wanting to let anyone in. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks, so I quickly looked back down at the ground.

My heart didn't return till its normal pace until I was pulling open the door to my apartment. I slammed the door shut and rested my back against the door, taking a few more deep breaths. My mind was going a million miles an hour. Whew. This guy really knew how to make a girl ache for him. I climbed into bed, way too exhausted from the days work to even worry about eating anything.

Considering I had gone to bed at about seven the night before, I wasn't surprised that I woke up at five the next morning. It was still dark out, and my building was very quite. My stomach grumbled. Why didn't I eat last night? Needing to stretch and wake up a bit, I decided to go down to the corner deli, which was open 24 hours.

After grabbing a hot sandwich, I made my way out of the deli. A flyer taped to the window caught my eye. It was him. That face that had been burned into my memory and my dreams for the last two days. I read the flyer, which confirmed my suspicions from the day before. He was a well know painter; he was having his pieces shown in a popular art gallery not too far from here tonight. Edward Cullen. I had heard of him of course, I guess I just didn't put two and two together. I guess I knew where I was going to be tonight....

Smiling, I ran back up to my apartment and prepared myself for another hard, but enjoyable, days work. The day passed pretty much the same as yesterday, but today I had a whole new appreciation for his deep concentration. Could he be working on a painting for the gallery? No, surely he would have been done all of those by now, considering the exhibit was tonight. But, then again, what do I know about artists and the way they work?

Around midday, he left. My heart sank, but I figured he probably just had things to take care of for his big night tonight. What if I ran into him tonight? I smiled at the thought. Pfft, don't be silly. He probably doesn't even remember you. Hell, he might not have even noticed me these past few days. I tried to tell myself that was fine. He had provided me with so much, with out even knowing it. I guess part of me wanted to get to know this mysterious man that had made such an impact on me and my writing.

Not having any real incentive to stay late, I headed home to get ready for tonight. I took the time to do my hair, and put on make up, which I rarely ever did. The only really semi-formal clothing I had brought with me from home was a simple black dress that wrapped around my waist. It fit me well, and I came to the conclusion that I really didn't look half bad tonight.

My heart was again pounding in my chest as I walked the three blocks to the art gallery. Deep breaths, I reminded myself. The place was crowded when I arrived, even though it was still early. There was a large picture of Edward hanging on the window, which I couldn't help but stare at. Aren't you curious about his art? I questioned myself. Yes, I was. I really was. I hopped up the steps and made my way inside.

There were so many paintings; I wondered how long this exhibit had been planned for. I couldn't even imagine how long all of this must have taken. They were exquisite, to say the least. He seemed to paint every subject, there were many landscapes, groups of people, and even some still life. I was in awe of his talent. And he was so young too! Edward was probably going to become one of those artists that you study in textbooks a hundred years from now. I tried to glance around for him, but I didn't spot him anywhere. That wild head of hair would have stuck out in this crowd.

I had stopped to look at one of his paintings more closely, when I heard a few women talking near by me.

"You know, I heard they were thinking about not even displaying his work," she said to her friend.

"Really? Why not?" She was shocked. As was I, so I listened closer.

"Apparently, all of his work just came to a screeching halt. He just stopped painting one day. I guess he lost his inspiration..." Boy, did I ever know how he felt. "I was talking to his publicist earlier, he had to finish one more painting before they could display them. Something about the rules of the gallery. He must have finished them up somehow," she finished with a sigh. Hmmm, Edward seemed to be in the same position I was.

I made my way further into the gallery, and was never disappointed by what I saw. The back wall was empty though, from what I could see. There was a large crowd of people around it, so I assumed that there was _something_ there. I edged my way through the crowd, desperately wanting to see. I stopped short when my eyes fell upon the painting. I couldn't believe my eyes. This couldn't be right.

It was me. In the painting. These past two days, Edward had been painting me. Who would have ever have thought that I was worthy enough to be the subject of one of Edward Cullen's paintings? And yet, there I was. He painted exactly what he saw. I was sitting underneath that magnificent Oak tree, my laptop on my lap. I was looking off at something to my left, so you could see my profile, which he captured perfectly of course.

I must have been white as a ghost at that moment. I stepped a bit closer to look at the plaque beneath the painting.

_Merci, Ma Chere_

_Edward Cullen_

_Oil on Canvas_

_October 15, 2008_

My thoughts quickly fluttered back to the few years of high school French I had taken. _Merci, Mon Chere_....Thank you, My Dear. Who was he thanking? Me? No. That's not possible. I had no idea what the title meant. At least it wasn't one of those lame _'Untitled'_ pieces. I hated when artists did that. Is it really that hard to think up a title? No.

I took one last look at the painting and rushed out of the gallery. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. A part of me felt almost....violated? No, that was too strong of a word. I guess it made me a little uncomfortable that he was painting me without my knowledge. But then again, I felt extremely flattered, knowing that he deemed me worthy to be in his painting. It was all just so confusing. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all. I would have to meet him, have to talk to him, after this.

Not wanting to go home to my cramped apartment, I headed to the park, where I have had so many fond memories. I strolled through, nearing my tree. I looked down at where I usually sat and then to the middle of the park, where I spent so much time looking. No wonder I couldn't find him at the gallery. He was here, in the park. He was just standing there, looking up at the sky. Who knows what driving force propelled my body over to him. He heard me approaching, and looked down at me.

We both inhaled sharply, I was transfixed by his gaze, I don't know about him. Seeing him this close, gave me a new appreciation for his immense beauty. Our bodies were practically touching, and I could just feel the energy that surrounded us. So many unanswered questions, so much unknown between the both of us. But that didn't matter right now.

The moon glowed down on us, lighting up his face. He almost looked sad in a way, and I couldn't fathom why. I gazed up at him, almost as if to ask "Why?" He took his hand to touch my cheek; the warmth surprising me for a moment. He didn't answer my unspoken question, his simply said, "_Merci, Ma Chere._"

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